


Calculations

by seventhe



Series: Sev's Commission Run 2019 [2]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: 1x3 - Freeform, Circus, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 23:58:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18041537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/seventhe
Summary: Trowa works three months straight for the Preventers, then returns to the circus for a month.  It’s in his contract.Heero does not understand.(1x3, finding a place in a world without a war)





	Calculations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [argle_fraster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/argle_fraster/gifts).



Trowa works three months straight for the Preventers, then returns to the circus for a month. It’s in his contract.

Heero does not understand.

The circus is bright. Threats everywhere: visual angles compromised by flapping fabric; pathways only straight for five paces before veering off around numerous obstacles. Noise level is offensive. Chatter of voices mixes with unknown animal sounds and groaning machinery: nearly impossible to detect oncoming danger. So many colors. Scent of too many humans, unknown quantities of animal. Air is thick, like cotton; no breeze. Fabric on overload: red and green and bright, bright blue, like the shock of the sky on Earth.

Why is he here?

Heero works with the Preventers because it’s what he knows. Works with, not for: he keeps the distinction. It is very important. They ask and he chooses. He often chooses yes; battle is familiar, it is comfort. The purpose, the mission, the target. He and Trowa even work together sometimes. Heero enjoys those jobs the most, because Trowa slots into place at his side just like Heavyarms did, with no adjustment period or unnecessary discussion. They speak the same language when they are on cases together: efficiency, straight lines, clean cuts.

But this, this Heero does not understand.

There is nothing about this circus that is clean, or straight; it is a riotous dust cloud of everything that is the opposite to the way they work together. There is no mission, no target, no endpoint: it is all gold and silver, silk and roses, voices and the huff of a lion and nothing is neat and tidy and aligned. 

Trowa invites him, specifically, every month he goes. Heero has never bothered to accept until now. 

He stops a man wearing far too much purple spandex and glitter and obtains some vague directions to Trowa’s - space? Home? Tent? No good way to categorize. The man’s outfit was vastly impractical: disregarding the costumey aspect, no places to hide weapons, and far too much bare skin. These people must feel safe here, Heero thinks. They are so vulnerable. 

Then again, it is his job to analyze for danger; his job to stay alert and aware, and to strike before struck. Their jobs are far too different. He does not understand their work, or why they do it.

“Heero?”

The voice cuts clear across the clamor and noise around him with its familiarity. Heero turns, already knowing Trowa will be standing at the door to the van he’d just put behind him in his search. He wonders whether this isn’t acceptable social behavior; whether the invitation was polite rather than true.

But then Trowa smiles. Heero knows this is a smile particularly for him; he has checked. Data says that Trowa smiles differently at Heero than others. Heero has been collecting the data for months. There is something in Trowa’s smile that produces an unexpected reaction, and has caused a surprising amount of interest in Trowa himself. Hence the visit.

Heero shrugs, but feels himself smiling back. “You invited me,” he says. There’s a warmth in his voice. He’s glad to have found Trowa, and additionally, he’s glad to be here, to experience this strange thing with his friend.

Trowa is, surprisingly, nearly as relaxed as the people around him. The lines of his arms are alert but not tensed; his shoulders are low, and he is still smiling. Heero wonders at it: Trowa is maybe the most deadly of all of them in person, and Heero’s sure he’s still intensely capable of defending himself, but he is surprised to see so much of his guard down. When Trowa is on a mission, he is much more sharp, more focused. This is almost soft.

Heero likes the look of it but cannot pin down why, which bothers him.

“I did,” Trowa says, his smile growing nice and easy and wide. “Good to see you taking me up on it. Good to see you here. Hard to find?”

There’s something in his voice that makes Heero think Trowa knows something he doesn’t about this. About his visit. It isn’t a comfortable feeling, and Heero tucks it into his backbrain for consideration.

“The circus, no,” Heero reports. “Your space? A little.”

Trowa laughs. “We set up the same every time, but for a visitor I’m sure it makes no sense.”

“Is there a sense to it?” Heero asks, curious.

“Of course.” Trowa blinks, surprised. “Show’s far too big to set itself up.”

He approaches, giving Heero’s shoulder a brief but friendly squeeze, and starts to point out lines and divisions in what still seems like chaos. Apparently there are general sections for animals, props, performers; the crooked lanes between caravans and tents provide privacy; and within each division there is an order, a direction, starting from the outermost structures and moving inward to the big tent. Trowa and Catherine are one or two rings in, and pass through what appears to be makeup and props before finishing up at the ring.

It makes sense and Heero is still overwhelmed by it. It seems an imprecise system, where the forest is the same each time but the trees shift around each other individually as needed. He is aware that missions must remain flexible, and they never go quite as planned, but this is — he is curious because it is a thing Trowa accepts with his usual stoic calm. This rainbow of chaos is as familiar to Trowa as quieting a riot or rescuing a hostage. 

There is nothing of their work in this place; nothing of battle. Nothing, even, of security. Nothing of Trowa the pilot, narrowed eyes and Heavyarms. Heero is finding it hard to conceptualize.

“You’ll want to go in now,” Trowa says, and he’s leading Heero through one of the fragmented paths towards the big top. “I’ll show you the best seats in the house.”

His hand is pressed to the small of Heero’s back to guide him. It’s warm, both from Trowa’s hand and the way Heero feels heat run up his spine. It’s a stabling anchor, helping him navigate this space not build for defense or attack, built in a language Heero doesn’t know how to speak.

“Here,” Trowa says, gesturing to a small area far to the left of the rest of the bleachers. “My favorite angle.”

Heero sits, and Trowa leaves with a gentle press of his hand between Heero’s shoulderblades. He spends his first few minutes tracing out entryways and exit routes, lines of sight, potential places for an ambush. Then he realizes what he’s doing, and his brain sits for a minute, hanging like a stalled computer. 

How does Trowa — do this? Is he still executing all of these functions from being a soldier, from being a pilot, at the same time he’s wearing makeup and doing steps? The circus itself seems too much to monitor all at once; to maintain the level of awareness required for mission success while at the same time staying - soft - enough to relax in the center of noise like this: this is a paradox. These two vectors cancel each other out.

The show begins. It’s so much: too much. Heero finds himself admiring the precision of it, the details, the control: the man shooting arrows upside down and blindfolded; the woman with the tigers, snapping the whip; the dancers, hanging from the ceiling with an indecipherable series of silk scarves, intertwining and somersaulting in mid-air, are almost the most impressive: their throws and catches and flips are all muscled and accurate amidst a whirling chaos that could be destroyed by one thrown rock. Heero finds himself calculating the arc required to do so in the middle of their performance, and has to deliberately stall his brain out. He is meant to be watching.

He does not understand the clowns. The crowd laughs, roaring, but Heero somehow finds them kind of sad.

Trowa and Catherine enter. Heero cannot help the derisive kick in his gut at Trowa’s clown outfit. He has never understood why someone as professional and skilled as a Gundam Pilot would touch the clothes — but Trowa plays it with his same gentle reserve. A natural performance: that is also an oxymoron. The half mask is important to Trowa and Heero doesn’t know why. He wants to peel it off of Trowa’s face.

Catherine’s aim is to be appreciated. She might have made a good pilot, Heero thinks. She has the precision and the attitude, maybe not for a Gundam, but she’d be lethal in a mobile suit. It’s a bar he judges most people against. Trowa stands, turns, and the audience remains surprised at the cool way he can face down the blades. This is the mask, Heero thinks; this is the falsefacing. What can an ornamental knife do to Trowa that the war hasn’t already? Hurt? It’s a joke.

Is this why Trowa comes? Does it remind him of the war or tell him the war is over?

Once Catherine is done, Trowa ascends to the high wire. There are a series of rings hanging over it from which Trowa swings, flips, tosses himself. He always alights back on the wire. Heero watches the muscles play over and over: Trowa’s abs tightening, his thick biceps bulging as he catches himself yet again. He could certainly do it himself given enough training, but he has no training, and the moves are an impressive display of strength and precision both that pools oddly at the base of his spine.

The show continues: Heero marks elephants, trapeze artists, and a one-eyed dog happily jumping through hoops of fire. The jugglers mesmerize him. Their brains must be incredibly precise to control all of the spinning elements and not drop anything. But his mind remains on Trowa, swinging above the ring.

This heat in his spine has not dissipated by the time the show ends. Heero moves upwards in the bleachers until there is nothing between his back and the fabric of the tent and waits for most of the people to clear out before he descends himself. No point in chancing an encounter in a crowd. 

Once back at Trowa’s van, Heero nods to Catherine as she leaves, beglittered and gleaming, moving towards a bonfire at the edge of the area. Trowa offers Heero a beer, and they climb to the top of the van, idly drinking and staring at the bonfire and the stars.

Trowa sits close. He’s still shirtless, wearing a pair of sweatpants with holes in the knees. His bare feet twitch against the roof of the van. Heero tucks up against him because human touch is known to be comforting and he collects it when he is able.

“What did you think?” Trowa smirks at Heero as he says it. There’s still that tone that says Trowa knows something Heero doesn’t. It’s less annoying now, just the two of them tucked up into a more solitary area - although they’re wide open to an entire smorgasbord of sniper lines; Heero hopes the guy with the bow doesn’t have an agenda, let alone Catherine - and the setting sun dimming the visible chaotic colors. 

“The performance was excellent.” Heero shifts. The taste of beer in his mouth and Trowa’s bulk next to him reminds him of days in a truck, nights curled up on tarps in the bed, and the scent of warm wind. “I hadn’t thought of a circus show as requiring such a skill set. It was incredibly impressive.”

Trowa’s mouth quirks upwards. He looks amused at Heero’s assessment. “Did you have fun, Heero?”

Fun is an odd word. Heero says this to Trowa, who laughs.

“Why’d you come, then?” The questions sits on Trowa’s lips. 

Heero frowns. “You invited, and I was curious.”

“Curiosity.” There’s something warm curling in Trowa’s tone now, and Heero hones in, wondering why. “About the circus?”

“About you,” Heero admits, bluntly, because it makes sense. “You come back here, every three months. Why?”

Trowa hums, a low note that echoes inside Heero, awakening some sort of ache. “You don’t understand this, do you?” He gestures out at the entire circus, the mismatched sprawl of tents and vehicles, the bonfire, the night crew breaking down the big tent. “It isn’t your thing.”

“I enjoyed the show.” Heero snorts. “But I don’t understand the setting, or why you come here when you leave.”

“Okay.” Trowa takes a long pull from the bottle; his throat moves. “Tell me. Why doesn’t it make sense to you?”

“This is a disaster,” Heero states immediately. “Complete disregard for security. Absolutely no structure. I could have taken out dozens of targets without anyone the wiser. Could have made off with untold money and property. It’s packed, chaotic, impossible to secure, impossible to protect. Don’t you worry?”

Trowa throws his head back and laughs. There’s something precise about the line of his profile, down to his neck, that Heero appreciates against the dimming sky. “Human factors,” he tells Heero, the laughter still in his voice. Trowa throws an arm around his shoulder and Heero subtly scoots closer, intrigued by this new opening.

“Human factors are messy,” he points out.

Trowa snorts. “First of all, it’s pretty damn unlucky to steal from circus folk. Or otherwise mess with them.” He shrugs. “Don’t know why, and there’s no proof, but the stigma creates a layer of protection a lot of the common population won’t interfere with.”

Heero snugs himself into Trowa’s side and looks out at the camp. That fact makes some of it make sense. The lack of defensible entrances; the plethora of side and back exits. And part of the chaos: the hanging silks, the blankets, the charms. “Luck” being a human perception, it makes sense to encourage the deception if it acts as a guard.

Trowa’s fingers are tracing patterns on the skin of Heero’s shoulder. It feels nice, wakens that low burn at the base of his spine that he’s been sitting on. 

But he cannot stop his inquiry. “Even if this - this,” he repeats, gesturing out at the spectacle. “Even if it’s perfectly safe. You don’t come here just because it’s safe.”

“Human factor,” Trowa repeats, and his fingers clench on Heero’s shoulder as he leans slightly to look Heero in the eye. He says softly, “You really aren’t there yet, are you?”

Heero bristles, but Trowa just tugs him close again and sighs. 

“What would you do if there’s nothing left to fight?”

Heero freezes involuntarily for a split second. “There’s always something left,” he says, slowly.

“Sure,” Trowa agrees. “Small scale, there’s always someone who needs protection. Someone who’s causing danger. But.” Here he pauses, and his voice is notably gentle as he asks: “What do you do outside of the Preventers? When you’re not on mission?”

Heero huffs. “I read,” he says. “I’m studying history at the moment, as it’s often relevant. I stay caught up on the news.” He shrugs. “I have recently started rock climbing.”

“Fair enough.” Trowa shifts, bending in a little bit so that he’s slightly closer to Heero. “But those are still you, preparing for a fight.” He shoves his shoulder at Heero playfully. “What do you have that isn’t the fight?”

Heero frowns, and looks up at Trowa. “Is that why you have this? He thinks. There’s no fight here, no mission even; there’s no goal except, what, the entertainment? “Is it the performance? Do you need that… that affirmation?”

Trowa rolls his eyes up to the starlit sky. “Performance,” he muses. “Heavyarms was as much of a performance. No,” he concludes, looking affectionately down at Heero. “I don’t need eyes on me.”

Heero thinks: What do you have that isn’t the fight?

“You come here,” he proposes, slowly, the theory building in his head, “because it is the opposite of the Pretenders?”

“There you go,” Trowa says warmly, and his fingers go back to their gentle petting. “And I invite you because I think you need a reminder, too.”

Theory correct. Now to explore evidence; to correlate. Heero needs to understand. 

“Would you mind if I stayed with you for a few days?” He turns in Trowa’s arm to look up at his face.

That crooked smirk comes back, and Trowa leans in to gently press his lips to Heero’s - a moment, a blush, a glimpse. “Now you’re starting to get there.”

He can email HQ tomorrow. He has plenty of time off saved in his account. A few days here in this chaotic swirl, tucked in here at Trowa’s side, learning Trowa’s ways and thoughts: the concept is pleasurable. He likes the idea. Heero files the kiss away as something to attempt again, at a different moment. Something else to explore.

For now Trowa tugs him in close, and Heero tips his head against Trowa’s, and calculates how many equivalents of standard explosives would be needed to match the roaring bonfire in the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> Commission for my DARLING <3 I LOVE YOUUUUU
> 
> also hello any random Gundam Wing fans, WE OLD but bringin' back gundam wing in style


End file.
